by Brenda Novak
Chantel stepped between them. The crudeness of Wade’s words brought a heated blush to her cheeks, but she wasn’t about to let the two of them start fighting. “That kind of talk’s not going to help anything,” she said. “And you have no right. Now, please go.”
Wade looked from her to Dillon and back again.
Dillon put one hand on the door, opening it wider. “You heard her, buddy. Out.”
“Who the hell do you think you—”
Without even waiting for him to finish, Dillon grabbed Wade by the shoulders and tossed him outside. Chantel gasped, expecting her ex-boyfriend to come up swinging, but Wade merely scrambled to his feet, called them both a few choice names once he was out of range, and took off.
CHAPTER SIX
DILLON TOOK a deep breath, waiting for the adrenaline pumping through his body to subside. “Are you okay?” he asked, watching Chantel make her way over to the sofa and sink into it.
“I’m fine. I just thought…I didn’t think he’d go without a fight.”
“Guys like him never fight. They talk tough, but when someone calls their bluff, they run.”
“Not Wade, at least not if he thinks he can win.”
Dillon tried a smile, hoping to calm Chantel down. She’d lived with Wade for something like ten years, if he remembered correctly. “A man who’s that concerned about what he sees in the mirror is going to be pretty careful,” he said. “Gives whole new meaning to saving face.”
Chantel blinked up at him, then laughed. “Can you always tell so much about someone you’ve just met?”
“Not everyone’s that transparent. Take you, for instance. I’ve only known you four days, but I’m already confused.” He took the seat next to her. “I was hoping you could explain a few things.”
A certain wariness entered Chantel’s eyes, but she nodded.
“I want to know how you could cut things off between us so quickly and easily. I thought you felt something that night. If I wasn’t dreaming, you told me you did.”
“That was before I knew about you and Stacy.”
“There is no me and Stacy.”
“Dillon, you were dating my sister. I hope, for her sake, that you still are.”
“You want me to pretend to feel something I don’t?”
“No…yes.” Her fingertips flew to her temples as though she had a headache. “I don’t know. I just want you to do whatever you would’ve done if you’d never met me. Stacy’s a wonderful person. She’d make someone—you—a great wife.”
The alarm that had gone off in his head when he’d first realized who Chantel was rang louder. All weekend he’d been telling himself that they just needed some time to talk, time alone. He’d been sure he could convince her that they should tell Stacy what had happened, explain that it was beyond their control and gain her blessing to keep seeing each other. Now he doubted he could reach Chantel, after all, and wondered if she’d ever open up to him again. “You can say that, after Friday night?” he asked.
She stared at the carpet, and her voice was soft when she answered. “I can’t say anything else.”
Dillon stood and began to pace. “Chantel, I’ve already made love to you.” He whirled to face her. “I want to do it again, here, now, tomorrow, the day after that and the day after that. I can’t forget how it felt to hold you, our bodies joined, and hear you cry out my name. I lost myself in that moment—”
“Stop!” She covered her ears, and when she looked up at him, he saw the tortured expression in her eyes. “It was a mistake, Dillon. We didn’t even know each other. I nearly died that night. You saved me. It was an unusual situation. Things happened that otherwise wouldn’t have.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it! It wasn’t a passing attraction kindled by the heat of the moment. The spark is still there.”
“What? What do you want from me?” Tears started down Chantel’s face, and Dillon wanted to kiss them away as he had the night they’d been stranded in the storm. He remembered the silky feel of her cheek beneath his lips, the salty taste of her tears. She’d closed her eyes and given herself up to his comfort. He wished she’d do the same now.
“I want what we had.”
“It was an illusion! I’m an illusion! Don’t you know that? If not, ask the guy you just threw out of here.”
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” Dillon knelt before her and tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. “Look at me, Chantel.”
“You don’t know me,” she insisted. “If you did, you wouldn’t want me. Men like you are a dime a dozen. They like the idea of having a fashion model to hang on their arm. Big man bags model. That’s all.”
The insult stung, bringing Dillon’s anger back full force. He shoved away and got to his feet. “I didn’t know you were a model when I went back for you. How can you say that?”
“Because if you cared about me, you wouldn’t ask me to hurt my sister!”
Dillon let the words hang in the air. Was he being selfish to fight for what they had, what he thought they could have? “Stacy can’t care that much for me. We’ve only dated a few times.”
“She thinks she’s in love with you.”
“But that’s crazy!” He turned away to stare at the Thomas Kincaid painting above the fireplace. “How?”
Chantel gazed up at him. “Easily,” she murmured.
“What about you? Don’t your feelings count for anything? Or are you trying to tell me you don’t have any feelings for me?”
Dillon held his breath, waiting, hoping she’d give him a crumb of encouragement. But she spoke only of Stacy.
“I almost lost her once, Dillon, my only sister, my only living family. Our mother died of breast cancer when we were in junior high. Stacy’s father took off when she was only three. Then my father—the father who raised her—died of a heart attack five years ago. I’m all she has left. And family is family. I’m going to be the type of family she can count on, through thick and thin. I’m going to be there for her, even though she doesn’t think I have it in me. Because I love her. And because it’s my duty. And because I owe it to her for the past.”
He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “What do you mean? What happened in the past?”
“I told you. I nearly lost her.”
“How can you lose a sister?”
“By stealing her fiancé and running away with him to New York!”
Dillon stared at Chantel’s bent head. She was openly crying now. “Wade?” he asked numbly.
She nodded.
DILLON STARED at the ceiling of his bedroom, trying to figure out what he should do. He cared about Stacy, but he didn’t love her. He thought he could love Chantel, but she wouldn’t let him. And regardless of all the other confusing emotions swirling around in his head and his heart, he wanted Chantel physically, and more powerfully, than he’d ever wanted any woman.
With a groan he rolled over and faced the wall, seeing the crest of an early-morning sun through the branches of the crepe myrtle outside his window. He’d told himself over and over that he wouldn’t get emotionally involved, not with anyone. Considering the way Amanda was acting, his two daughters needed him, not more competition for his time and attention. In the two years since his divorce, he’d dated and had fun, but no woman had come close to unlocking his heart. Until now.
Ironically enough, Chantel held the key and didn’t want it.
Damn, life could be difficult.
He pictured Stacy’s bright smile, the dimple that dented her cheek. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than Chantel did, didn’t want to ruin their friendship. He liked her, maybe even loved her in a brotherly sort of way, but after meeting Chantel, he knew he had to distance himself. Just in case there was ever a chance—
The telephone on his nightstand rang, and he picked up the receiver, hoping it was Chantel. He’d scribbled his home number on a slip of paper and placed it on her counter when he’d left. But deep down he knew she wouldn’t u
se it. She’d already made up her mind, and her past experience with Wade, along with her drive for self-respect, wouldn’t let her change it.
“Hello?”
“I can’t believe I finally caught you home.”
Dave, his uncle. Dillon smiled. “I went out for dinner last night. Have you been trying to reach me?”
“I’ve called half a dozen times, just never bothered to leave a message.”
“Why not?”
“I hate answering machines.”
Dillon released an exaggerated groan. Some of the older generation resisted change more than others. Dave, with his hulking build and gray crew cut, looked like some kind of tough guy. And he was. He was a childless retired marine with a history of promotions and a heap of awards. But Dillon knew him to be a gentle and compassionate man. The type who talked little but meant every word he said. Dave had made a world of difference in Dillon’s life. Though he’d never told Dillon he loved him—he wasn’t vocal enough for that—Dillon had never doubted it. Despite all the stepfathers who’d sworn Dillon was worthless, Dave had believed differently. And Dillon had finally decided to prove him right. “I guess e-mail’s out of the question, too, huh?”
Dave chuckled. “Damn computers. It’s not enough people got ’em in every room in the house. Now they’re packing ’em along everywhere they go.”
“How’s Reva?”
“Still badgering the hell out of me. Won’t let me eat my steak and eggs without fussin’ about the cholesterol. Weighs all the damn food. I swear, the farm looks as good as it does because work is my only refuge.”
Dillon didn’t believe that for a minute. Dave loved his Vermont farm, his retirement haven. And he loved Reva as much as any man could love a woman. Dillon knew that if anything happened to her…well, he didn’t want to think about what would become of Dave.
“She still make you that chicken-and-broccoli casserole I like?”
“Yeah. I guess she has her moments.”
Dillon could hear Reva saying something in the background and knew Dave was catching hell for what he’d said. He smiled to himself. “Tell her I appreciate that she’s trying to take good care of you, even if you don’t.”
“If you call naggin’ takin’ care of a man…”
“She’s the only one who could put up with you.”
“That may be true.”
Dillon could hear the smile in Dave’s voice. They went on to talk about sports and the weather. His uncle never approached subjects any deeper than that, but beneath the surface of everything they said, Dillon felt the strong bond between them.
“When you comin’ back this way?” Dave asked.
Dillon had visited the farm twice since the divorce, had taken the girls both times, and knew he’d go back again this summer. Brittney and Sydney loved running around with the dogs, climbing on the tractors and pulling carrots out of the garden. And he loved being with Dave and Reva. “I’ll come for a week sometime in July or August.”
“Good. Reva will make that casserole you like.”
Of course she would. And she’d also make pies and bread, salads with the vegetables in the garden and, despite the cholesterol, they’d grill steaks. They’d drink lemonade on the porch after dinner. Dillon would try to pretend that Dave wasn’t getting on in years. And he’d know they were some of the best days of his life.
“Gotta go. Reva says it’s time for breakfast.”
Dillon smiled again as he hung up and decided he might as well get out of bed. But the telephone rang again before he could so much as move.
“Hello?”
“Dillon, this is Helen.”
Helen? His mother-in-law Helen? She hadn’t called him once since the divorce. He sat up and propped himself against the headboard. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. What’s wrong, Helen?”
“It’s Amanda.” She coughed, then continued in her throaty smoker’s voice. “She went to Las Vegas for the weekend with a…friend.”
The way she said “friend” let Dillon know it was a man. With Amanda, of course, it would be. “And?”
“And she was supposed to be back last night, but I haven’t heard from her.”
“Where are the girls?”
“Here. With me.”
“Did she leave you a number, tell you where she was staying?”
“No. She called on Saturday morning, but that was it. I’m worried. Brittney and Sydney missed school yesterday, and I missed work. I thought she’d be home anytime, but now…I don’t know what to think. I can’t miss another day of work or I’ll lose my job.”
“I’m coming to get the girls,” Dillon said, dressing as he spoke. “Do you know the name of the man she went with? Maybe we can call the hotels to see if—”
“She said his name’s John Heath, but I’ve already called all the hotels I can think of. None have a John Heath registered.”
“Are the girls upset? Do they know what’s going on?”
“They’re still asleep. They know we’ve been waiting for their mother to come back, but they don’t seem too worried. They’re used to being here with me…a lot.”
Dillon clamped down on the anger he felt at that statement. They didn’t have to be at Helen’s—ever. He wanted all the time he could get with his daughters, but Amanda kept them from him out of sheer spite. That her mother went along with it only added to his frustration and fury. He often wondered what Amanda had told Helen to poison her so completely. “Have you called the police?”
“They said I could file a report tomorrow, but they didn’t sound like they were going to do anything about it. I filed one last year when Amanda disappeared for a few days, but it turned out to be nothing, so they think this is just the same kind of…situation.”
“I never heard about that. Where was she?”
“Palm Springs.”
“With a man?”
“What do you think?”
His poor girls. Their mother had degenerated into a complete mess. What had happened to the woman who used to read to them and play with them and rock them to sleep? “Are you going to let me in this morning, Helen? In the past I haven’t caused a scene, for the girls’ sake. But this time I won’t go away. I’m taking my girls home and—”
“I called you, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “And that’s exactly what frightens me.”
Because you wouldn’t have done it unless you felt you had no other choice.
“STACY? IS THAT YOU?” Chantel called from the bedroom when she heard the front door open and close. She hadn’t expected her sister to drop by the condo this morning, but Stacy lived only fifteen minutes away and she had her own key. Chantel had asked her to keep it in case she ever needed a spare. Stacy had never used it before, but who else could this be?
“Yeah, it’s me. Aren’t you going to be late for work?”
Chantel glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand as she slipped on her shoes. It was almost eight o’clock already. She’d been up most of the night, unable to sleep because of Wade’s sudden appearance and Dillon’s disappointment when she’d sent him away. She’d finally drifted off in the wee hours of the morning and then had difficulty waking up when her alarm clock went off at six.
“Darn.”
“What?”
Chantel heard Stacy walking down the hall toward the bedroom. “I am going to be late. And it’s only my second week.”
“What happened?”
“I took a sleeping pill.”
“Why?”
“Why do most people take sleeping pills?” Chantel said as she brushed past her sister on the way to the kitchen. “Don’t you have to work today?”
“No. I only work Thursday through Sunday this week.”
“Must be nice.”
“Do you want me to come by at lunch? We could go out.”
Chantel’s breath caught at the casual, offhand invitation, simply because it sounded so natural. Finally Stacy was beginning to trust her
again, or at least to like her a little. She turned and threw both arms around her sister in a quick, impulsive hug, the first in more than ten years.
Stacy stiffened, but after a moment, she patted Chantel’s back. It wasn’t the warmth Chantel was hoping for. But it was a start.
“What’s up with you?” she asked as Chantel broke away and grabbed her car keys.
Everything. Nothing. “I’m just glad to see you.”
“You’re not going to embarrass me today at lunch, are you?” Stacy teased.
Chantel laughed. In her current frame of mind, there was no telling what she might do. “I can’t give you any guarantees.”
“I brought you a bagel.”
Food? Chantel grimaced to herself. She hated food. She waged a constant war with herself—trying to eat when normal people ate, forcing herself to consume amounts that resembled normal portions. She wasn’t going to bother this morning. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry. Is that why you came over? To make sure I ate?”
“No, I came over because someone called me last night, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
Chantel paused at the door. “Who was it?” she asked without turning around.
“It’s too late now. We’ll talk about it at lunch.”
DILLON SAT in his newly remodeled kitchen and watched his daughter Brittney frown at her oatmeal. She’d scoop up a bite, stare at it for a moment, then let it drop off the end of her spoon.
“That will do you more good if you eat it,” he said, setting the morning paper aside.
“I hate oatmeal.”
“It’s healthy. Doesn’t your mother ever make you hot cereal?”
“No.”
“What do you normally eat for breakfast? Eggs?”
“Fruity Pebbles.”
“Your mother gives you sugared cereal every morning?”
“No. She tells me to get it myself so she can sleep.”
Dillon rubbed his forehead. “Who feeds Sydney?”
“She gets her own, like me.”
“I see. Do you get yourselves to school, too?”
